


Fire on the Tongue

by versions91



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Bonus City Walking Tour, Catch!verse, Community: inceptiversary, Food Porn, Food/Porn, Hong Kong, Inception Bingo, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 00:31:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11703045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versions91/pseuds/versions91
Summary: They’re dining out on Saito’s dime, so to speak, and the sky is the credit limit.(In which Arthur and Eames get Hot and Bothered over beef brisket noodles.)





	Fire on the Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Kate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader) for the fantastic beta job and much-needed guidance, and to [Renn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/somedrunkpirate) and [Jody](http://archiveofourown.org/users/http://archiveofourown.org/users/boredpsychopath_jc) for the lovely pre-reading feedback. <3 <3 <3 All mistakes remain mine.

They’re dining out on Saito’s dime, so to speak, and the sky is the credit limit. 

“Arthur, this is _corporate espionage._ ” Eames revels in the mischief, and his mischievous grin is unbearable.

Eames’s not entirely wrong, but Arthur doesn’t like agreeing without reservation, and particularly dislikes agreeing with Eames.

“We pay, like any other customer.” 

Eames grunts lightly, saying nothing, and studies the menu in earnest.

They're testing out the competition in the local fine dining scene, so there is a covert element. If dining alone wouldn’t make him stick out, he wouldn’t have had to bring Eames. At least, that’s what he tells Eames. (“Darling, if you want my company, say no more.”) He doesn’t mind a second opinion, he supposes, and Eames has expertise in something he doesn’t.

Four courses later, having dropped 1,865 dollars on food and wine, they walk out of three-Michelin-starred Otto e Mezzo and take the escalator down. Turned to his side, Eames leans against the handrail on both elbows, mouth pressed into a soundless hum. The air con is strong, but Eames’s cheeks are flushed, and the collar of his blush pink shirt lies open, just wide enough to reveal the tip of some ink. _That looks…_

Arthur blinks, and sets his mind back to business. “Didn’t like the meal?” 

The flavours were well-balanced, if ordinary, and there’re better bread baskets in Hong Kong, but the presentation was classy, careful, and the service couldn’t be faulted.

“Arthur,” Eames’s mouth opens and closes, as he pauses to step off the escalator. “The problem with fancy places, you s—” 

Arthur watches his feet land behind Eames’s, and catches a glimpse of bright red under the left cuff of beige chinos.

“—bience, service, plating: none of it matters if the food doesn’t taste much. Think about it. The white truffle mushroom soup was not bad. The lamb was passable. But the sea bass, the sea bass was so _bland_.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows, but there’s no point arguing about fish with a fishmonger, is there?

He’s about to defend the baby lamb (the meat pink, the asparagus fresh and roasted to perfection, the tomato compote piquant in sweetness, “passable” is not fair), when he notices they’re exiting the building to Des Voeux Road Central...

A wall of humidity hits Arthur, crushing him mid-breath. Christ. 

It’s the end of lunch hour: the pavement swarms with the office crowd retreating to tiny cubicles in fifty-story buildings and, in between the suits, people in various sorts of dress: a turbaned man in a kurta, a construction worker shirtless (tanned), gym-goers in sleek black leggings (freshly toweled, pale). On the road, a red taxi and a silver sedan dash across the intersection; several buses closely follow, leaving the dark green double-decker tram in center lane to chug along at its own pace. The grind of its wheels against the tracks announces its coming and going and, of course, there’s the eponymous double-bell ring. 

_Ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding…_

“We could have gone down the MTR from inside.”

“Sure, but, we shouldn’t leave lunch at that, should we?” Eames claps his hands together cheerily. “Fancy a walk, and then we go get more food? Hmm?” 

“More food.” Arthur stares.

Curiosity’s got the better of him, dammit, so they brave the crowd and walk against the current.

  


* * *

  


Under an explosion of brand signs fuchsia, red, and green, they climb. Eames fucking loves these signs. Taken on their own, there’s nothing special. Pile them all up, and it’s chaotic, brash, beautiful. The heart of LKF is just in front, but it’s two-thirty in the afternoon, so what’s the point? He should bring Arthur around another time. Two-thirty at night, would Arthur loosen his tie and laugh with a beer in hand on a street corner, or would he scowl disapprovingly? 

They turn right. Eames tells Arthur about Yung Kee, the embattled dynasty of roast duck, still standing with its two-storey golden facade (shame Arthur arrived after the Kams’ family feud) and Tsui Wah (of which, well, Eames was too drunk to remember much). There’s a great wonton noodles place just round the corner, but they must stay on course today.

Facing the afternoon sun, they walk further up and, crossing paths with the Escalator above, reach Hollywood Road. 

On Hollywood Road they each drag their feet before the galleries now and then, to peek at a pair of Tang ceramic horses or a Yayoi Kusama, but never come to a stop completely. In thirty-two degrees, their pace is languid but testing. 

Arthur’s squirming. It’s his own fault for wearing a three-piece suit in the dead of summer. Eames has no sympathy, and enjoys the view of Arthur in a light taupe waistcoat too much to wish otherwise. A salacious comment about shedding layers is on the tip of his tongue, but Arthur’s turned away to look at the alleyway up on the left, and the sight of Arthur’s jugular, extended, exposed, slicked in sweat—

Eames bites down to stifle a moan. The heat is really killing him.

  


* * *

  


Eames did derail his plans to stop by Zegna after lunch (it was right there in the same building!), but Arthur would admit: it’s nice, walking the slopes of Soho leisurely, wandering. Flashes of hilly San Francisco come to mind, though Soho has a different energy altogether. There’s no posturing of coherence, or elegance; its image is a collage of ownership and consumption. There must be a hundred bars and restaurants within ten minutes, something for everyone (anyone who can afford it): Indian curry, Brazilian churrascaria, kebab, all-day breakfast, Korean barbeque, bahn mi, the finest French, sushi and omakase for _nights_. And graffitied on the streets are not revolutionary slogans, but numbers for plumbing. 

Past Aberdeen Street, Eames walks down a staircase briskly, and beckons him to follow.

It’s almost three, and there’s still a queue outside the corner shop. They join the eager diners and Arthur, with his meager understanding of Mandarin, overhears streams of it.

He cocks his head and speaks in a hush. “Looks like a classic tourist trap.” 

“Yes, the secret is out — sorry about that, darling, but — trust me.” Eames does sound apologetic, but Arthur can hear the giddiness in his voice too.

He does, so he waits. 

They’re eventually seated with two other people, to share a round table barely bigger than Arthur’s nightstand. Arthur shoots Eames a suffering side glance, to which Eames responds with the same promise in his eyes, and waves down the waiter.

When the noodles arrive in an unassuming black plastic bowl, the scent of mixed spices sneaks up to Arthur like a kick. It’s fantastic: lots of chilli blended with turmeric, cumin, a pinch of coriander and onion too, sending a pleasurable rush of blood into his brain. Strands of beef brisket fall apart when he bites into the meat, and at once he feels the tender texture and savoury juice oozing in his mouth. Intense flavours of beef and curry swirl and blend deliciously on his tongue, as slippery flat noodles snip into pieces with each chew. His mouth is hot, too hot, but he can’t stop...

With quick work of his chopsticks he slurps and devours the bowl without finesse, not caring how clumsy it may seem. When he finishes, he closes his eyes for another sniff, and concedes. 

“Eames, I’m impressed.” 

When he looks up, Eames is gaping. 

Eames. Eames looks—

His eyes hungry and dark against the daylight behind, shadows accentuating the shape of his cheekbones; his mouth half-open in awe, jaw slack, teeth sharp, and his lips puffing from overstimulation, plush lips growing even pinker a shade, and he’s _licking_ —

Obscene. Eames looks obscene. 

“Shall we—let me.”

Eames stumbles out of his chair, startling their poor table-sharers, and slaps a hundred dollar bill on the counter. They hurl themselves into the back of a taxi stopping just outside, like two drunkards mid-afternoon in Sheung Wan. It’s too late to blame the alcohol now, but Arthur doesn’t care. He blames the curry. He blames Eames, the way Eames looks, the way Eames looks at him. It feels a little crazy, but he’s all fired up: he grabs Eames’s right hand and brings their thumbs to graze his own swollen bottom lip wordlessly.

“ _Arthur._ ” Eames growls.

Arthur chuckles, warm vibrations coursing through his veins, and wraps his hand around Eames’s wrist, to feel their heartbeats throb against his fingertips.

**Author's Note:**

> Oawaidonawbd that was! my first! completed! Inception fic! Lots of thanks to the Inception Bingo mods for providing the inspiration.
> 
> Kudos and comments give me life! You can also find me on Tumblr [here](http://monologues91.tumblr.com).
> 
>  _Catch_ is a restaurant AU where Saito hires the crew to break into the fine dining business in Hong Kong, and Arthur finds Eames in a neighbourhood wet market selling fish. :) I'd been planning the AU before Inception Bingo; the "food porn" prompt gave me a perfect entry point for a oneshot in this verse, teehee.


End file.
